


The Ties That Bind

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Adra Bán [6]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: F/M, Gen, ancient Engwith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9341474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: He has no idea Woedica cut some pieces out from his perfect memory, removed them so carefully he does not even notice the cracks. And that in doing so, perhaps for the first time in her existence she was merciful.





	1. What Matters Most

**Author's Note:**

> (Many thanks to Ranna Dylin for beta-reading!)

He is surprised to see a light coming from the small chamber. He steps closer, noiselessly, stopping at the threshold.

She is hunched over her desk, wrapped in a woollen shawl, shadows trembling on her face as flames dance on a few candles. There is a stack of parchments on the desk, and a few scrolls; one, unrolled, falls to the ground on the other side. She is writing, but there is something off about her motions – too precise, too careful.

“You should be asleep,” he says quietly, but still his voice rings too loudly in the empty corridor.

She turns abruptly, startled, as if she has just heard a ghost. And it is not too far from the truth. There are memories, too fresh, in every hall of the sanctuary, almost palpable on the lower levels, near the main chamber. No wonder she looks so unnerved.

“I have some notes to finish,” she replies, turning back to her scroll, her voice calm, but there is something brittle in her tone.

He realises that she is close to the breaking point, balancing on the very edge. That despite being so confident earlier, so adamant about giving her soul up for the cause, she is afraid. That it is her last night in a mortal body, her last night ever, and that she is sitting here alone in a cold room, surrounded by nothing but shadows and memories. He is not a very compassionate person, but having served Woedica, he understands justice all too well. And there is nothing just in this.

Life is not just, echoes in his mind – a cold, calm voice, as if that of his Queen. No, it is not, and he knows that better than most. He has seen much in these last days, perhaps too much. It is but the beginning of the way, and he already feels weary.

The girl turns, her fair hair framing her face in strands of light. “You should be asleep yourself,” she speaks quietly. “You look tired.”

I am exhausted, he thinks, but does not say that aloud. “So do you,” he replies instead.

She watched her family and friends give their lives and souls; he knows because he was standing right next to her. She watched, she helped because she is a soulmistress, so she had no choice but to see it to the end; she did her duty and her hands did not even tremble. But her spirit was shaken, he can see it clearly now. And she is sitting here in the cold, alone with her fear and memories, burdened by remorse and guilt. Life is not just, but must it be needlessly cruel?

“Thaos?” she calls in a whisper.

“Don’t,” he says suddenly, surprising himself even more than her.

She blinks at him, not understanding.

“Don’t do it.” He looks at her face, as tired as his own. “Go to sleep. Finish your notes tomorrow. Write more. Go outside.” He shakes his head. “There is enough emptiness already,” he whispers, looking away.

There is. It feels as if they were two ghosts; the only two living souls in a place filled with ashes and silence.

“I can’t.” Her eyes are sad; he has never thought human eyes could hold so much sorrow within. “I can’t live with this.” She shakes her head. “I can’t.” But when she glances up at him, there is compassion in her face. “I don’t know how you’re able to...”

He shrugs. “Because someone had to do it.” Because his Queen asked that of him. Because had she not asked, he would have offered that himself.

“She should not have demanded that of you,” the girl says softly.

“She put her trust in me.” Thaos turns away from the pity in her eyes. “And I saw and understood her reasons. I did it willingly.” Perhaps just not being entirely aware of what exactly it would entail.

“And understood that she is using you?” Her voice is barely audible.

“Yes, that too,” he admits. “It changes nothing.” It is too late for doubts now, anyway.

He hears soft footsteps, and then a cold hand touches his shoulder.

“You must sleep,” she says gently.

He sighs. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’d rather do that than think about myself,” she says, gritting her teeth.

He shakes his head. They are too worn out even for a civilised talk.

“Thaos?” Her hand slips down and lightly wraps around his.

“What are you do-...”

She puts her fingers across his lips. “You must sleep.”

He looks into her eyes. The sky after a storm, bruised and troubled... But there is also a shard of peace she forces out of herself for his sake.

“You have a long way ahead of you,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to walk all of it alone.”

It would be so easy to accept her offer... But he wants to be honest. He owes her that much, at least.

“I don’t...”

“It doesn’t matter.” She wraps her arm around his waist and steers him towards her tiny bedroom, and for some unfathomable reason he lets her. “I know you gave yourself to Woedica. It doesn’t matter.”

They lie down on the narrow bed, and she curls up against him, holding his palm close to her chest. He can feel her heartbeat. It is soothing, much more than he expected it could be. He puts his arm around her, and the shape of her body fills up some of the emptiness.

And then he understands. His heart, mind and soul belong to Woedica, and he will not be able to give them to another. Not in this life, perhaps not ever. He is not certain he would even want to. But it does not matter. They both simply need someone’s presence, that is all. This is not about love, not even intimacy, just about not being alone. Maybe she is right. Maybe it will be easier like that, at the beginning of the way, at least. Maybe this way he can persuade her to live.

He can understand sacrifice, but why make it when it is unnecessary? There is no justice in that. A grim smile twists his lips. Yes, he knows about justice.

She should live, write her notes and protect that knowledge neither of them ever wanted. She should live. Someone should. Someone should...

“Walk with me,” he says abruptly, with sudden force, born out of despair he never thought he would feel. Feelings are a burden; he must ask Woedica to take them away. “Walk with me.”

Her eyes are soft and sad, glistening with unshed tears, but there is quiet determination underneath. “I will, Thaos,” she promises. “I will.”

The tightness around his heart eases up a little. Without thinking, he reaches out with his mind, and she does the same. It is barely more than instinct; two souls are stronger than one, that is all. That is what matters most right now.

“Walk with me?” she whispers, her eyes opened wide in the gloom. Two oceans of anguish and sorrow... but no longer complete hopelessness.

“Yes. By the gods, yes.”

Later, people will say that the gods answer the prayers of their most faithful servants. Thaos himself will say that of Woedica. He would laugh at those words scornfully every time if he only remembered.


	2. Mortal Sin

II

He does not have to take her to his bed; she would be thankful enough if he gave her just a smile. But an evening with a lover makes it easier for him to sleep at night, and it has been a while... Seven years? Ten? A dozen? He does not remember. There are so many more important things on his mind...

Intimacy is something he can live without; over the course of his lives, he has lost some of the emotions mortals usually experience, and desire does not feel the same for him as in the first life. It happens only rarely, and it is something he can easily brush aside, if Woedica does not choose to have a laugh at his expense and show him some memories in a dream, but she has not done that in years.

But sleep is another thing. There is always something on his mind; always new plans to devise, new speeches and prayers to compose; he is ever busy. And falling asleep usually takes him much longer than he would like. True rest, a moment of relative peace... That is tempting. She would not object; it would only make her happy, and more devoted to him than she already is.

He keeps thinking about it more and more often, but still waits. Perhaps once she does something important, something deserving a reward... He cannot have the acolytes thinking that just following his orders and looking at him wistfully will get them to his bed. Well, it might get them halfway there. But he never does anything without a more important reason than just his own whims. If she proves useful, he decides, he will let her know that he might be interested. If she proves her worth to the Leaden Key.

And then, when he is talking to the girl about solving the problem of Iovara, he takes one more closer look at her soul. She is afraid that this task he has given her will be too difficult, she is resentful of the idea of having to lie... She is overwhelmed by the knowledge of how much trust he puts in her, and her soul flares, its flames more bright than any he has seen in anyone in this life, and perhaps even a few previous ones. Her soul flares, warmth radiating off it and flooding his own soul. For an instant, he feels calmer, a promise of real peace.

He watches her soul and makes a decision. She is a useful tool already, even if he were to discard her talents in soul magic; her closeness would give him true rest. Had he known, he would not have waited for so long.

That evening, when he recalls her soul, sleep comes to him more quickly. And in the morning, when he wakes calm and well-rested, he starts counting the days to her return.

 

III

Her white hair is too bright in the dim corridors of the Sanitarium; she seems too pure, too clean. She does not fit this place. Nor does she fit with any of his memories, contrary to what she says. But looking through someone else’s eyes is not enough to be certain, so he reaches out with his mind.

He recognises her soul, and the memories flash before his eyes. Memories of quietness and peace, of things he lacks the most in his lives. For an instant, his sternness softens into something else, and he almost gives in to the temptation. It would be so easy to acknowledge her, to bring those memories to life, perhaps. She would not deny him, he knows; he holds the key to the peace of her soul, just as she used to hold the key to his. Just as she could do again.

In this life, in this moment, he has more important things to think of than himself. He has never been anything more than a tool, after all. That is something he has always known and accepted.

He pushes the memories away, not without an effort. But he succeeds. He must. This is the right thing to do. And Woedica is not very lenient to those who disappoint her. He knows. There is a familiar feeling; this happened before, and back then, he failed. He will not repeat old mistakes.

He has no idea Woedica cut some pieces out from his perfect memory, removed them so carefully he does not even notice the cracks. And that in doing so, perhaps for the first time in her existence she was merciful.

 

I

The road is lonely, even though they walk it together. She helps him write first prayers and holy books and psalms. Carefully mixes powders and egg yolks into paints and draws first frescoes of the gods on the crumbling walls of old Engwithan structures. And in the evenings she sits by the fire or by candles with a scroll in her lap, writing down history. Creating it. She helps him greatly, and it is easier to focus when he can look at her and see that she is constantly working.

It is difficult to watch her in the firelight, always so carefully avoiding his gaze. He can sense that she is lonely. He knows she has no one else, because her family and friends are gone, and there are only a few more who share their burden, but they are elsewhere in the world, far away, on other borders of old Engwith, which will soon become the pillars of civilisation. And she gave him her word, promised to walk this way with him, because it was all she was left with, because she needed to believe what they did was right. She needs to remind herself of that every day.

It would be so easy to slip under her blanket, lie next to her as he used to at the beginning of their journey, years ago; put an arm around her and give in to the temptation. She would welcome him; she would welcome anyone’s closeness at this point. Just a little bit of kindness would be enough.

He resists. He wants to be fair to her; that is the least he can do to thank her for her help, which he appreciates, even if he is no longer able to show it. He resists, but he thinks of it. Remembers the smell of her hair, the shape of her body in his arms, the rhythm of her heartbeat under his fingertips.

She notices; of course she does, perceptive little thing. Foolish, sweet, compassionate little soul. For a few days, she keeps glancing at him, but he pointedly turns away every time. And then one morning he wakes to a pleasant warmth at his back, a slender hand resting on his chest and a breath tickling his ear.

“I was cold,” she says quietly.

What she means is: you were lonely, and so was I. Yes, they both are. That is no excuse.

She gets up, averting her gaze, quiet. For the whole day, as they walk, he keeps glancing at her, at the sunlit wisps of hair slipping from her bun, at the adra and copper clasp tangled among wheat-coloured waves. He imagines her with her hair down, imagines how her skin would taste if he pressed his lips against her neck. Imagines... ah, all kinds of things. Very briefly. But he does not have to imagine how it would be to lie next to her later; it would give them peace, if only for a few hours. That would be a lot.

That night, when she comes to him, he is just feigning sleep, so when she reaches out to put her arm around him, he turns and kisses her. It is easy; easier than words. She falls into his embrace like she would into a lake, lets him deepen the kiss – it is air and water, not fire, but air and water are what is necessary to survive. She clumsily tries to kiss him back, and that is when he pulls away, swallowing a curse.

“Apologies.” He sounds more formal than he intended, but he is angry with himself. He should have guessed earlier, should have paid more attention to her. “I shouldn’t have.”

She forces him to look into her eyes. “I am tired of being alone. So are you.” She hesitates. “Dreams don’t give you peace, do they?”

He wants to laugh. Dreams of Woedica could never give him peace. They used to make him long for something that could never be, but now... They just give him purpose, and unrest.

“You can imagine her, if you like. I won’t mind,” she adds decisively, a light blush creeping across her cheeks.

Her hair is fair, not gold and copper, and her eyes are blue and gray, dark, not bright like adra, but he could try... No. It would be a disrespect to all three of them. Besides, he doubts she could ever make him feel what Woedica did. Even the dreams evoke more passion than those few images of her he conjured earlier.

But she is right; he is lonely, and it is becoming a burden. And if he is to serve his Queen well, he cannot let this burden distract him.

“No,” he says at last. “No, I won’t.”

For all the small smiles she gives him, her kisses have the salty taste of tears.

Later, she thanks him for being considerate. He says nothing, just presses his face into her hair. Sleep comes easier to him when her body fills the empty space in his arms.

They talk little during the day, but they are both calmer. More focused. More efficient in their tasks. And in the evening, he puts his bedroll next to hers. She briefly reaches out and touches his mind, soft, soothing. Caring. It helps.

* * *

 

Next night, they make camp at the edge of a forest. He is sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree as comfortably as he can, watching her doing the usual writing. A prayer to Eothas, that was all she said to him earlier. When she is working on something alone, she does not like anyone seeing the text before it is finished.

Finally she rolls the scroll up and puts it into a leather tube, then hides it in her sack, among other scrolls and parchments and inks. She sits next to him, and he hands over a cup of herbal tea, almost cold by now, but she does not seem to mind, and just sips it absent-mindedly. She looks calmer and more content than in the last few months. Perhaps even years.

When she finishes her drink and puts the cup on the ground, he pulls her into his lap. She is startled, but does not try to withdraw.

“I want to see your eyes,” he says quietly. He needs her to understand. He needs himself to understand.

Slowly, she nods. Smiles. Wraps her arms around his neck, rests her forehead against his and keeps still. Her breaths, deep and even, calm him. He holds her like that for a long time; they almost fall asleep. Then, as she pulls back a little, he kisses her. Gently, demanding nothing, and maybe that is why she gives him everything, and all he can do is accept it graciously and try to repay it.

Later, as the flames in the fire are slowly dying down, he wraps her in a blanket and in his arms. She is warm, her hair is tickling his neck, and there is some measure of peace in this. More than he expected. Different than he expected.

“Thaos?” she mutters against his shoulder, her cheek growing hot with another blush. “Do you think of her, when you’re with me?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I don’t.”

He could not pretend, even if he wanted to. He does not feel that kind of wonder, nor such passion. Back then, he was in love. Perhaps he still is, no matter how foolish it would be of him; he is aware that to his Queen he is, and has always been, just a tool, a favourite servant at best.

Now, with her, it is different. Softer. She does not love him, but she cares, and in some way he cares for her, too. Because of that, they are cautious and patient, and there is peace to be found in that. He could get used to it. Perhaps one day he could even be content, having this woman by his side, if they could just rest for a while.

He strokes her hair gently, even though inwardly he freezes as it dawns on him that it will never come to be. That by thinking of it, he doomed them both. For a moment he forgot their cause, and that is a sin which will never be forgiven; one lifetime will not be enough to atone for it. And sooner or later, justice will come.

Woedica does not throw away useful tools. But he knows that his Queen never forgets, and that she will demand they pay a price. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in a few days, maybe not even months, but she will. Justice can be patient.

* * *

 

His Queen waits for a few years, and then takes the girl’s life; not her soul, though, that small mercy at least. She has been useful, and Woedica would not punish faithful service, just transgressions.

And then his Queen answers his prayers and takes away his feelings, and with a start he realises there are no regrets and no remorse, no guilt, nothing. There is nothing left but his purpose and reason. If he could still feel, he would be cold.

Decades later, his Queen comes to him to take his first and final offering – himself. She takes his soul, and guides it through death into his next life. The first turn on the wheel of his eternal servitude.

In that next life, Woedica returns his memories to him, each of them detailed and perfect. But she does not give him all his memories back. He has been useful, and she would not punish faithful service. So she grants him that one small blessing: he will never know.


	3. Fading Hours

When he wakes up, she is not beside him. Thaos reaches out, but the space on the other side of the bed is empty. He tries to blink sleep out of his eyes, then sits up on the mattress, still not as coordinated and conscious as he would like to be. It is no surprise; it has been months since they slept in a proper bed.

She is standing at the window, in a simple, sleeveless linen nightgown. In the moonlight, with her hair down, she looks like a silver figurine – she would look like it, if silver was soft. She seems lost in thought, her gaze focused somewhere far away – or far in the past. He hopes it is not the latter, but knows her well enough not to really believe in that possibility.

She cannot find peace for long, even here, in Teir Evron – the name seemed strange at first, but its meaning became clear the first night they looked up into the sky. It is a good place to be – a village at the borders of old Engwith, slowly growing into a town. People are kind and welcoming, curious about the gods, so there is much teaching to do, and they are building a sanctuary to Woedica – the more work they have, the less time to spend on musings and memories. It is a busy, rather quiet life; a moment of respite before they will have to continue their journey. Which, sooner or later, they will have to do.

But for now, there is work... Maybe it is not honest, but when he can see sparks of hope and awe kindling in people’s eyes as he tells them of the gods, he knows it is good work. It grounds him, gives him purpose, reminds him why he believed it was not only the necessary thing to do, but also the right thing to do.

And in the evenings, there is the chirping of grasshoppers, the sweet songs of the nightingales, and a warm, comforting presence beside him. Most nights, it is enough just to know she is near, to hear her even breaths when he wakes, to let them lull him back to sleep. They pretend to be married, for the sake of the villagers; it makes little difference, because he does not even look at other women anyway. They live near the temple they’re building, so no one would probably take much notice, but this little lie lets them behave just as they did on the road. Supporting each other whenever they need it.

And it seems that is precisely what she needs right now. Quietly, he gets out of bed and walks over to her.

“You should rest,” he whispers, gently touching her arm to get her attention, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

She turns, startled. Then smiles at him, her expression something between sadness and amusement.

“You were having a dream,” she says, slightly uncomfortable. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Thaos swallows a curse. Then grits his teeth together to stop a sigh. “You could...” he starts, and immediately breaks off.

“You know very well what a terrible idea that would be,” she replies, her voice falsely light and carefree.

Yes, he has already forgotten himself once, let his thoughts stray too far away from their great cause. Woedica remembers, and they would be wise never to offend his Queen that way again.

That is why he does not finish the thought, holds back the instinctive response that she should have woken him up. That is why she does not answer that she might have wanted to.

She slips under his arm, embracing him, resting her head in the crook of his neck. In moments like this, he wishes he had her sensitivity, wishes he could read her moods as well as she senses his, that he could repay all the times she has offered comfort before he even knew he wanted to ask for it. But all he can do is try to be gentle with her. Thankfully, it seems to be enough – maybe because she had lost everything else. It is not right, but it makes their strange arrangement work.

His deep sigh ruffles the hair at the top of her head. “Do you dream?” he whispers softly.

“No”. She nestles closer, and her nose tickles his neck briefly. “I didn’t have anyone when...” her voice falters. “I didn’t have anyone. There’s no one to dream about.”

“You could have someone,” he suggests. “Not here, not after what we’ve told them, but the next place we go...”

She pulls away a little, just enough to be able to look into his eyes. “Someone who would know nothing about it?” she asks quietly. “Someone who would not understand?” Slowly, she shakes her head. “No.” She forces a smile. “And imagine what a disaster it would be if I talked in my sleep one night.”

She tries to make light of it, but the concern is justified and serious. They must keep the secrets buried. If she found someone, she would never be allowed to share her sorrows, and that is no way to live, either.

He strokes her hair, the motions perhaps even more soothing to him than to her. He asked and she gave him her word, and he feels he owes her something for carrying that burden with him.

“Perhaps I could give you dreams,” he offers in a whisper, his lips close to her ear. “If you wanted,” he adds immediately. “If you think it could be enough...”

“Thank you.” She finds his hand and squeezes it gently. “But it doesn’t matter what I think.” Her voice is very soft, but very clear. “Remember thy Queen,” she reminds him, quoting one of many prayers they have written together. “Let Woedica have your dreams. I will do without.” She smiles briefly. “I have managed, so far.”

He sighs. “I don’t want you to manage. I want you to...”

She turns to him, raising her hands to frame his face. “To what, Thaos? Be happy?” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I will never be. You won’t be either.” She leans in. “But we live. Perhaps there is some comfort to be found in that, not just duty and grief.”

He looks down, into her eyes, wide in the gloom of the night, and gently brushes his lips against hers. She sighs. He kisses her again, deeply, but without hurry. As if he could draw breath and life from her mouth. Perhaps he does. Perhaps she does, too. There is comfort in that.

“No dreams,” he breathes. “Just...” Us, he would think. “This,” he says.

Her fingers slip into his hair. “No dreams.” She embraces him, soft and warm.

For a moment, he gathers her to him, holds her tightly against his chest. She clings to him. There is no love between them, but he has learned that despair and loneliness can sometimes be much more powerful. A sudden wave of guilt washes over him. Maybe he should not have asked of her what he did. He most certainly should repay her for the effort of going through every day. It is different for him; his family had passed away earlier, and he knows their souls are probably somewhere in the world, and he could meet them again – not that he would ever wish to. But she misses her close ones, and she will never get that chance he refuses to take.

He tries to pick her up, but she stops him, takes his hands and leads him back to the bed. A sad smile twists her lips as her palms cradle his face. It is painful, to watch that smile.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, thumb stroking his cheek. “For making you feel what you would rather not.”

He crushes her to him and kisses her with such force it takes their breath away.

“Don’t...” he pants. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” she asks calmly, in a small voice.

There is nothing he can do but close her in his arms and bury his face in her hair.

“But it’s not your fault, it’s...” He shakes his head, because what can he say to that stubborn girl who chooses to be so compassionate even at her own expense? His hands are shaking, too. “I asked you to go with me. I should feel guilty. It’s right. It’s...”

“That’s not what I meant.” She strokes his hair. “Just that my presence reminds you of everything.”

His fingers tighten on the folds of her nightgown. There are no words he can offer to this persistent woman who always tries to comfort everyone but herself.

“Thank you, Thaos.”

“For what? I did nothing...”

“Your thoughts.” She kisses his temple. “They tell me all that needs to be said.” She moves away, takes his hands. “Come to bed,” she whispers softly. There is still sorrow in her eyes, as ever, but her smile is warm.

He follows her, lets her push his robe down his shoulders. Gently pulls the nightgown over her head, to reveal the familiar contours of her body.

They are attentive and careful, and patient. Whatever little passion is between them, there is no need for hurry. They take their time, because it is a way to forget. And later, when she is lying in his arms, both of them still and silent, for a moment the world is at peace. It is enough.

“Thank you,” she whispers, sleepily, “for a beautiful memory.”

He touches her cheek, looks into her eyes. “Thank you for staying with me.”

She smiles against his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

He laughs quietly at that, a breathless little sound. Her smile widens.

“Goodnight, Thaos. Sleep well.” Which means: sleep without dreams if you wish to.

He kisses the top of her head. “You too.” Years ago, he gave himself away, and since then his mind and thoughts do not belong to him, so he does not dare to think he might wish to dream of this, of her and the peace she gives him.

* * *

 

She wakes up before dawn. Thaos mutters something in his sleep, his arm tightening around her when she tries to get up.

“I’m thirsty,” she says, brushing his hand away and getting out of bed. Then she leans over and kisses his forehead tenderly. “It’s still early. Sleep.”

He mutters something unintelligible and smiles. She steps away, blinking back a tear. He has always been considerate with her, and it was easy to care for him, easier than she had thought it would be. It made it possible to live.

Then, in an afterthought, she walks over to the table piled with parchments and scrolls. Among the pages of chronicles and prayers, there is a hairpin, small dark adra beads on branches of thin copper wire. Sometimes, she used it just as a piece of jewellery, sometimes as a focus which helped her read souls.

She goes back to the bed and puts the hairpin on the pillow, right on the imprint of her head. He will understand. Perhaps he will not forgive her, but he will understand.

Woedica would demand her life sooner or later, anyway. Perhaps this way, by offering it willingly, she could win him a blessing. There is nothing more she can do for him. Did she give him a choice, Thaos would probably tell her to stay with him. But this is just one life; he will manage that long. She wants to give him something that will make all the next lives bearable, at least. Her last gift for the man who convinced her to live and alleviated the pain of memories. For the peace she found beside him, she wants to grant him peace in return, but it is not hers to give.

* * *

 

She stands before Woedica’s statue, looking up at the Queen’s cold, stone face. Then she bows her head and kneels down on dirt and rocks, pressing both palms to her heart.

“Hear me, Woedica,” she whispers meekly, a subject before her sovereign, a penitent sinner before the goddess of judgement. “For my thoughts against your will, I give you my life before you ask for it.” She is not afraid of dying. Death will take the memories away. That will be her absolution. “And I give you my soul to do with it as you please.” She blinks, surprised to feel wetness on her cheeks again. “Forgive me or forsake me, Oathbinder, whatever is your will.” She wishes she could delay her departure, for his sake, but this is the only way she can hope to gain anything by it. “I give my life and soul as an offering to you. And I dare ask for one thing in return. I do not come to bargain, but to beg.” She draws in a shaky breath. “Have mercy on him, Woedica. He offered to carry this burden throughout the ages to come; I beg you, take the weight of memories off his shoulders. As little as that. As much as that.”

“Why would you beg for him, I wonder,” says a clear, imperious voice, so sudden it almost makes her jump.

She snaps her head up, and sees Woedica standing right before her, in front of the stone statue. Not looking quite like a mortal, not quite like a goddess – a tall, haughty, cold woman in simple grey robes, golden and copper hair crowned with iron, eyes bright and sharp like adra daggers. The Queen steeples her fingers, and they point upwards like a mirror image of her crown.

Woedica arches an eyebrow. “I asked you a question, missionary.”

Her shoulders straighten, but she remains on her knees – tired dignity, but not pride – and looks her Queen in the eye. “You keep sending him dreams as reminders he does not need, and yet you have to ask?”

“First begging, then disrespecting me?” Woedica watches her for a moment, amused. “Most interesting way of pleading.”

“Is truth disrespect?” she asks quietly.

Woedica looks down at her.  “His dreams are between him and me, girl.” Her voice is not loud, but there is a subtle snarl of threat to it; do not touch what is not yours, mortal; I let you have his body, but do not forget that his soul belongs to me. “I can understand your wish to die, to forget... And yes, I think your life has been a suitable punishment for your sins.” The Queen’s bright, piercing eyes narrow a little, like those of a stelgaer watching its prey. “But why offer your soul for him?” Woedica laughs. “Out of love?”

Love? She has never contemplated that. It does not matter. He was all she had; it goes beyond love.

And it dawns on her that while Woedica may understand love and play on it to further her plans, the Queen’s heart does not know that feeling. Justice is impartial, and perhaps should be cold... But she finds it hard to believe in justice that is without mercy.

“I understand loneliness,” she says at last. “And what you ask of him is lifetimes of it. No soul, no matter how strong, could bear it and survive intact.”

Woedica seems thoughtful. “Interesting that you should ask me almost for the same thing he does.”

It hurts, more than she could have expected, that he would forget her, too. But is forgetting everything not the same grace death would grant her? He will never have that; there are things he will have to remember and carry along the way.

“I don’t blame him.” She shakes her head. “I don’t...” Tears are flowing down her cheeks freely now. She closes her eyes to stop them. “I’ve served you faithfully for years. That must be more than a few moments of doubts and bitter thoughts are worth. Call me into your service in the next life, if you wish it, but end this.” She swallows, takes a breath, calms down. Looks at the Queen again. “Call me into your service once again in the next life, but free him from the burden of memories.”

“Oh, I will free him.” Woedica smiles softly, but the sight is unnerving, not pleasant. “He’s been a distraction I remember rather fondly.” She touches a small adra amulet at her throat. “Besides, I take care good care of my tools. And you both have served well.” She reaches out her hand, palm downwards, as if to bless. “I can be merciful to my faithful servants.”

“Will you be merciful to him, too?” she asks quietly.

“Yes, I will.” Bright, cold light dances in the depths of Woedica’s eyes. “I will do even more, penitent. In one of your next lives, I will let you see it.”


	4. Remember Thy Queen

Dreams were never his choice. Oh, there are nights he remembers – Woedica’s bright, piercing eyes, the taste of her lips, her skin, the scorching heat of her embrace. The awe, the passion, the elation. He remembers; how could he forget? But dreams come to him whenever his Queen wishes to remind him who he belongs to. Or perhaps when she just wants to laugh at him, at how she can still ignite his thoughts with just a few memories, even if he knows those will never become flesh again.

Were it his choice, he would not dream this night at all, or if he did, it would be of the fair-haired girl sleeping beside him. But the choice is never his, and this night, it is Woedica’s will that he should dream of his Queen.

* * *

 

She greets him at the door to her chambers, clothed in a simple adra-coloured robe that matches the colour of her eyes. All the jewellery is gone, and so is her crown. The message is clear: for one night, she can be just a woman to him, if so she wishes, yet she is the only one who can take her crown off. But even without it, she is still so regal that he would not think of her otherwise than as his Queen. Her charisma, the command in her voice and the power of her soul and mind reflected in her eyes are the only signs of authority she needs.

Woedica smiles. Lets her gaze travel down his body and then back up, as if she could see underneath his robes. Her smile tells him she knows what he wonders about when he looks at her.

He bows. “My lady.”

She steps closer, closer, until she is so close he can feel her breath on his mouth. “I accept your offering.” Her whisper cuts the air like an adra knife.

He bows his head. “I am yours,” he confirms.

There is an edge to her smile now. Amusement, perhaps.

“Yes, you are.” Her fingers touch his chest; it takes an effort to keep his gaze focused on her eyes. “You will do well to remember that.”

Thaos does not need her warnings. He will remain her faithful servant, he will walk that path because someone has to, because she puts her trust in him. This invitation was not necessary either – but he is too weak to refuse. If he is nothing to his Queen but a servant, a tool, a plaything – so be it. If that is the price of her favour, of being able to look at her this close, to perhaps touch her, to remember her like this, as an approachable mortal woman – he shall pay willingly.

“I never forget an offence,” Woedica says, leaning in, hand tangling in his hair as she pulls him close. “But faithful service should be rewarded, should it not?” and with that she parts her lips and kisses him.

She tastes of wine and copper, frozen adra and molten iron. That is not what he expected. That takes his breath away, because it suits her more than anything he has imagined in those rare moments he dared. After a while, when the initial shock wears off, Thaos kisses her back, with all the yearning of the past few years when he could do nothing but watch her from afar.

Woedica moves away a little, eyes gleaming as she holds his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Not new to this, I see.”

“You are the first that matters, my lady,” he admits, because she knows it anyway. Maybe that is why she chose him, of all her servants – because she knew he would never refuse.

She laughs; her laughter is more pleasant than her smile, low and clear like the tolling of bells. “You misunderstand.” She grasps his hands, puts them on her waist. “I am glad of it. Maybe this will not be a waste of time.”

Her words sting, but she is his Queen, and he – her subject. It is within her rights to place demands. For now, she has granted him the privilege of her kiss and touch. That is a reward for his faithful service. But every other favour she might bestow upon him, he will have to earn.

She lays her palm on his chest, her touch burning even through his robes. It feels as if she was quite literally holding his heart in her hand, and for a moment Thaos wonders what powers does his Queen really wield. But he is not afraid. He is hers, mind and soul – and body, if she would do him the honour – and if she wishes to take his life, so be it.

“So devoted...” Woedica’s thumb brushes across his lips.

He turns his head to kiss the inside of her palm, and she lets him. Then she raises her hand and takes out the pins holding her hair up; it cascades down in a stream of gold and copper, falling over her shoulders like a mantle of glory. She is bright, harsh, beautiful; the only woman he can admire. The only woman he will ever think of.

Woedica reaches out, wraps her fingers around a strand of his hair and pulls him close. Her kiss is demanding, deep; intoxicating. Thaos kisses her back fervently, his hands tightening on her waist, then sliding down to her hips. He knows there is no need to be overly cautious; of all women, she would surely tell him if something was not to her liking, and she would probably communicate that by magic and pain, or cutting words, at the very least.

She mutters her approval, opens her mouth for another kiss and drinks it in greedily, until he is out of breath. But she is his Queen. She can take his breath and whatever else she desires.

Woedica pulls away, a satisfied smile on her face. Perhaps she has heard his thoughts.

She straightens, raising her chin, and though she has to look up a little to meet his eyes, she is so haughty and imperious that she still manages to seem taller.

“Now, Thaos,” she murmurs, calling him by his name, and her voice drips down his spine in a shiver, “you may worship me.”

Thaos kneels.

* * *

 

He wakes up in the small house beside the temple, all peace of the last evening shattered by his dream. The first thing he notices is that he is in bed alone. The second is the familiar smell of incense and pilgrim’s crown – his smell and hers, mixed. But she is nowhere to be seen. That is when his gaze falls on the adra and copper hairpin lying on a pillow next to him.

He freezes. Gently takes the pin into his hands. His first instinct is to run, but he does not move. She got out of bed before dawn – he was half-asleep, but remembers it was still dark – and now the room is bright, flooded by sunlight. By now, there is nothing left to run to.

Thaos falls to his knees, cursing his Queen for the first time in his life.


End file.
